


We Meet Again

by n_anon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vampires, Violence, non-consensual blood sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_anon/pseuds/n_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world world where vampires and humans co exist (mostly), being a personal donor to a vampire was a highly coveted position. Unfortunately for John Watson, he didn't share that opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I finally have an Ao3! yay! Beta'd by the lovely Hopeinashes.

**We Meet Again (1/2) :**

Doctor John Watson was told he was lucky that it was a human who had shot him. If it had been a vampire, they said, it would have been his cranium, not his shoulder that the bullet embedded itself in. He shifted in the uncomfortable economy class seat, all too aware of the wary looks his co-passenger shot him. He didn’t blame the man; he must look like hell.

His shoulder hurt, his leg throbbed, his head ached, and he hadn’t shaved since he’d been discharged from the military hospital in Dubai. His surgeon, a no nonsense woman from Bristol, had told him to get his ‘arse back to London’ and recommended him to ‘damn good’ physiotherapist who would make sure his shoulder was back to normal in no time.

Of course, ‘normal’ was a relative term. A surgeon with nerve damage to his dominant hand was not a surgeon at all. He was just a GP now, useless to the army, useless to any trauma hospital and so they had discharged him. He frowned at the small, oval window of the aeroplane, hating himself for the self pity.  _Buck up Watson_! He scolded himself. It wasn't the end of the world. Maybe he could join Doctors without Borders.  It had been very fashionable to have that in your resume when he was in Uni.   
  
He gulped down the shot of scotch that had been sitting in front of him.

 “You all right?” asked the man to his left.

John nodded, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, you?”

The man gave him a nervous grin and nodded back. Satisfied that the obligatory question was done with,  John went back to staring out of the window and ordered another scotch. He refused to dwell on how his life was basically over.

**

It was strange to be back home after five years. Heathrow was a maze of blinding white floors and shops that literally sparkled as you walked by. The click of heels as women hurried past him brought back a rush of old memories, and he found himself smiling. It was a welcome sound after years of howling desert wind and the rumble of army trucks. Yes, the army had been great but London had been kind to him too.

He made his way to immigration and stood patiently as his turn came, feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks.

“John Watson,” said the Indian lady behind the desk.

He mustered up a smile, she was very pretty.

“Hmm, You haven’t been home for a while,” she commented as she rifled through his passport.

“No,” he agreed.

“When was the last time you donated?” She still wasn’t looking up,  her fingers flying across the keyboard with a tap-tap-tap.

“Er, enlisted citizens only donate once a year,”  he replied. He wasn’t above reminding airport officials of his status. It usually meant a quick route through immigration.

Her eyes flicked to the computer screen and then up at him. “That’s right, but it says here that you were honourably discharged... two weeks ago?”

Had it only been two weeks? His leg throbbed. “Yes,” he said when it seemed that she was waiting for acknowledgment.  

“And the last time you donated was not to a bank but a personal donation to one Harriet Watson ten months and fifteen days ago.”

He gripped his cane. “Yes. It was the stipulated amount, I don’t see how it matters.” He really hated these formalities.

She smiled at him but the skin around her eyes didn’t crinkle. “I'm afraid that as soon as citizens are discharged, they are required to donate, irrespective of when they donated last.”

John frowned, “When did this happen?”

“Three years ago, doctor.”

John inspected his feet for a moment, feeling a little nervous. The files might say that he had donated religiously his entire life, but the fact was that if you had a family member who was a vampire, you could bend the rules a bit. 

Harry was moody and stubborn but she was still his sister and a rebel at heart.  She had known how he felt about donating, especially to banks, so she had volunteered to fudge the records a bit. She would claim that he had donated, get her fill on the side and John was free of the obligation to give his blood. It was highly illegal but John didn’t regret it. He loathed all policies that ignored autonomy of one’s own body and vampire policies made a joke of it.  Joining the army had made it even easier to stay under the radar .

Harry used to come visit him during his leave in Dubai and they used to have a good laugh over it. In fact, in the last 30 years of his life, John Watson had never had to give up even an ounce of his blood to a vampire.

“Doctor?”

John blinked out of his reverie, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. Can you repeat that?”

The woman gave him the plastic smile again. “I asked whether you will be going the personal donation route again.”

He contemplated asking Harry for help, but then he remembered the last time they had met. Even the memory made him angry; it had been exactly ten months and fifteen days ago that John Watson had come to accept that his sister was a raging alcoholic. He couldn't bear the thought of asking her for a favour. Not after the things she’d done.

He squared his shoulders. “No, no I won’t be.”

She nodded, handing him his passport and a form. “Fill in the form and the Association will contact you soon about the local donation centre.”

John nodded vaguely. “Thanks.” He scribbled in the details of his London bed sit and tossed the form into the collection box. Hopefully he wouldn’t be contacted for a few weeks.

**

Three days later, when John was lying on his bed, idly wondering whether he should take the gun Bill had mailed him from Afghanistan and end it all, the phone rang.

Not the landline, which had been ringing nonstop for the past two days (he couldn’t be bothered to get up from the bed and walk to the phone to answer it), but the mobile Harry had thrust at him his first day back. 

She had met him at the airport and, inevitably, they had had a row in public. It had started by her accusing him of being an ungrateful bastard and  _how could he not tell her he had been shot_ , and it had ended with him shouting that she was just like Dad, and  _how could she do that to Clara?_

Grimacing, he fumbled for the phone and blinked at the screen. It was just a jumble of numbers, but even those seemed to laugh at him. He didn’t need to be reminded that there were only three people in his address book; Harry, his therapist and the physiotherapist he was supposed to call.

“Hello?” his voice was hoarse and he cleared it.

“Doctor John Hamish Watson?” said the polite lady on the other line.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Hi, my name is Mindy from the Association-”

“How’d you get this number?” He was fairly sure it was still registered in Harry’s name.

“You haven’t been answering our calls, Doctor.”

So that’s who’s been calling, John thought, sitting up. 

“I’ve been, err, busy,” he said, rubbing away sleep from his eyes.

He glanced at the digital clock. It was 5 pm.

“Of course. We understand how hard it is for veterans like yourself, so we've taken the trouble to book an appointment for you.  Tomorrow at ten am.”

The thought of donating made him cringe. “I.. have a job appointment,” he lied.

“Oh, no problem, how about 7 pm then?”

“I have a date.” He smiled bitterly at his chosen excuse. He hadn’t had a proper date in almost 8 months.

“Lucky girl,” Mindy crooned. “What about 4 o' clock, hmm?”

“I, er well- ”

“Wonderful! We’ll see you then, doctor.”

The line went dead and a moment later his phone lit up.

_ You have one new message. _

John pursed his lips when he read it; the address to the donation centre. Just great, he thought, and flopped back down on the sheets.

**

The donation centre was just a five minute walk away. A medium sized building that looked more like a corporate office than anything else. John went up to the desk and a smiling man lead him through a corridor and left him in a room full of comfortable black couches and racks of magazines.  The floor was wooden and the walls were painted warm, inviting hues. It reminded John of a posh dentist's waiting room, minus the irritating music.

There were several people already there, sitting and riffling through magazines. Almost everyone was younger than him, and he felt a little self conscious. He remembered that by 35 most people had finished their donation obligations, the only exceptions being personal donors, who never had to come to the banks anyway. The “PD life” as they called it was supposedly the most fulfilling life to be had, if one believed the advertising. But Harry had told John stories about the way most vampires treated their PD’s. What was the point of luxuries if your sole purpose was to be food?

He couldn’t find any couch unoccupied so he went up to the chairs lining the walls and sat down.  There was a receptionist behind a desk at the opposite end of the room, and behind her two doors, one to her left as well as right.

“Max Cornwell!” she called and a young , gangly 17 year old jumped to attention. They had a few words and he grinned and sped past her to open the door to her right. Most people after him however, were called and sent to the left door. John wondered what the difference was.

“Are you here to volunteer or donate?”

John turned to his left, where a small, nervous looking woman was sitting. She was plain, but quite charming if you looked past the awkward smile on her face. It was almost as if she was trying to smile in a way that would best please John. She was dressed in a low cut top and skirt but was fiddling with the collar like she was embarrassed by how much skin she was showing.

“What’s the difference?” he asked, genuinely not knowing.

“I'm Molly.” She offered her hand and John shook it.

“John.”

“You don’t come here very often do you?”

“No, er. I just moved to London.”

Molly nodded like he was confirming something. “Well,  usually by  _your_ age people have finished donating their lifetime amount, that’s why I asked- oh I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I'm so sorry.”

“Molly, its fine. Go on, tell me the difference,” John said, laughing a little. His leg throbbed when he admitted to himself that it was the first time he had laughed since he had gotten shot.

Luckily, the girl was too caught up in her own embarrassment to notice his expression.

“Well, the door on the right is for candidates who are applicable to be a personal donor. The one on the left is for the bank.”

“I see. You’re here for the door on the right, am I right?”

Molly blushed and looked at her feet. “Is it very obvious?” she picked at her blouse again. “It’s the third time I’ve been here. He never picks me, even though I’m AB negative. ”

John patted her hand, “That’s all right. Everything happens for the best.”

She looked at him with round, hopeful eyes,. “Do you think so?”

No, thought John privately. “Of course.”

She smiled at him, a real smile that reached her eyes, and John suddenly couldn’t stand to look at her.

“Are you all right? she asked, sounding worried.

He had a headache but he tapped his thigh with his cane. “My leg gives me a bit of a problem, that’s all.”

“Oh, I’m surprised they would ask you to donate if you’re hurt.”

The word is cripple, he wanted to tell her. “So am I.”

“Are you AB negative as well?” she asked. She seemed determined to solve the mystery of the old crippled man in the donor room.

“Oh no, nothing as fancy as that. I was in the army before, so I suppose I haven’t done as much donating as the Association would like.”

Molly looked at him in awe. “That makes sense. Is that how you were injured? I’m a doctor, you know. Well, a pathologist, but that’s still a doctor. I could help,” she giggled.

John stared at her. A pathologist and she wanted to become a personal donor?

She must have seen the expression on his face, because she sighed.

“Oh, not you as well. Mum gives me the same look.”

“Why would you want to throw away all those years of studying?” John asked her, baffled. 

Molly twisted her hands in her lap, “He’s not like the others. He’ll let you do your own thing and he’s so very smart!”

“The vampire?” John asked, wanting nothing more than to take Molly by the arm and show her firmly to the exit.

“Sherlock. He’s lovely.” Molly said, turning fully in her seat to face him. 

“You know him?”

“He comes to Barts sometimes...” she trailed off, blushing.

This girl worked at his old hospital?

“Molly, you’re a smart girl. You must know that being a personal donor is nothing more than glorified sla-”

“Molly Hooper!” the receptionist called.

His words seemed to slide off of her as she sprang to her feet.  John huffed out a breath when Molly gave him a wide smile. She was ushered into the right door, and he hoped for her sake that whoever this Sherlock was didn’t choose her.

A minute later his name was called out and he found himself limping towards the receptionist.

“Ah, Doctor! We’re glad you could make it.”

John blinked at her.

“I’m Mindy,” she explained.

“Oh, nice to meet you,” he said, recognising her from the phone. Her hair was short, blonde and stylishly cut. Horn rimmed spectacles that were tinted purple perched  daintily on her nose, and her lips were painted a garish red.  She couldn’t have been more than 25.

God, he thought, blinking down at her. He felt old.

“Hmm, door to your right please.”

“Sorry?”

Mindy leaned forward and heaved in a breath. John tried hard not to stare right down her very revealing top.

“Door. To. Your. Right.”

John frowned. “There must be a mistake. I'm not here to volunteer.”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever fits the profile has to be screened. It just so happens that so many people want to become personal donors that some have to be turned away. That’s why we call it volunteering.”

“If there are so many people volunteering then why make me?” John said, starting to get irritated.

Mindy sighed, taking off her spectacles and pushing them onto her head. She trained sharp blue eyes at him.

“Look, Doctor Watson. I’m just doing my job. The profile says that all negatives and AB positives are to be put up for personal donor screening.”

John gripped his cane. “ I'm 36!”

“Yes, you are. However, you have never entered a donation camp in your life. We are providing you with an opportunity that you missed due to your...familial obligations.”

John got angrier at the casual mention of Harry but Mindy kept on speaking. “I don’t see why you have a problem with it. It’s just a screening. Very few people get chosen, anyway. ”

“That’s not the point! The age limit to apply to be a personal donor is-”

“30 for positives, 35 for O and A negatives, 37 for AB positive and B negatives, and no age limit for AB negatives. Applicable to the UK only, of course. ”

“That’s not how I remember it,” John said, shocked.

“Things have changed. A lot of potential personal donors in your generation got away with not applying and finished their lifetime commitment of blood before  the universal screening law was passed. You should consider yourself lucky you still have a chance.” She smiled at him but her eyes were cold.  “Door to your right please, Doctor.”

John glared at her, hating the feeling of not having a choice. What the hell had the government being doing while he was in Afghanistan? He limped especially slowly to the door and slammed it hard behind him.

“John!” Molly was running up to meet him the moment he entered. Her eyes were shining,  like they were in school and he had just been selected in the same team as her. “You volunteered!”

“No, I didn’t,” he grumbled.

“Oh, have you never been screened then?” Molly said, guiding him to sit on a red leather couch. It was so soft John felt he was being swallowed as he sat down. Molly seemed as uncomfortable as him, shifting on the couch for a few seconds before she stilled.

“No,” John said, looking around.  There were no windows, but the room was richly decorated with soft carpeting and expensive looking cabinets lining the sides. The seating was much like a stage, with the couches taking up most of the space, placed in rows. They faced a raised floor that held two armchairs where John guessed the vampires would be seated. He frowned at the others in the room. All of them were younger than twenty five, snazzily dressed and very, very beautiful.

He felt himself relax.  Whoever this vampire was, he was obviously extremely shallow. He was sure that he would be out of the bloody camp in no time.

“Oh, it’s a new law. Barely three years old,” Molly was saying. “Don’t worry. Last time Sherlock didn’t even turn up. His brother came to choose for him.”

“How many personal donors does this Sher-lock go through?”

Molly was trying hard to hide her glee.“Oh, quite a few. He chucks them all out after a few days. I think it’s because he rarely comes himself and his brother’s taste doesn’t really match his own.”

“I didn’t know that PD’s were compulsory,” John said. It was very unlike a vampire to be forced into anything. 

“The Holmess’ are a very influential family. Sherlock’s a grade two vampire and they’ve an allowance for 3 PD's, you know.  If he doesn’t have even one, people will talk.”

“Oh,” John said, realising guiltily that he didn’t even know what grade his own sister was.

“Oh, he’s here, he’s here!” Molly said, her fingers gripping the couch like she was stopping herself from getting up and running to him.

There was a general buzz of excitement as everyone stood up to get a better look at their visitors. John remained seated, it was too much of an effort to get up from the couch. The crowd parted as the two men briskly walked to the raised platform. The taller, leaner man, dressed in a stylish dark suit and purple shirt, immediately sank down onto the black armchair provided and twisted sideways so his long legs dangled over the armrest. He crossed them and made a waving motion to the other man in the room, as if to say ‘get on with it’. All the while he typed furiously on his phone and didn’t look up even once. 

By the way Molly was gawping at him, eyes wide with worship, John guessed that the man was Sherlock Holmes. He tilted his head. He supposed he could see why she was hopelessly in love with him. He was attractive, in an odd way, with his dark curly hair and pale skin.

 But John felt that it was the other man he had to be more careful of. The shorter, podgier one in a grey suit. He was leaning on a black umbrella and ignoring the dramatics of the younger man on the sofa, giving the room a small smile.

“Who’s he, then?” John whispered to Molly.

She mouthed, “the brother.”

“Good evening, everyone”, the man with the umbrella said; The accent screamed Eton.  “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and-”

“Oh for heavens’ sake Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice loud and stark. “Must we go through this again?”

“Y _e_ s,” Mycroft answered patiently and turned back to the room. John had to grin at the exchange. It was becoming obvious that whoever this Sherlock was, he wasn’t keen on keeping a personal donor. It really did look like he would be out of here soon. He wondered if he could fake a loo break and leave.

“Please, sit down everybody,” the older man said, motioning for them to take their places. “I know a lot of you are hopeful about the position today-”

John noticed that Sherlock was still typing, oblivious to what was going on around him.

“-And I see some familiar faces in the crowd-”

There was a rumble of approving voices around.

“-I am gratified that so many of you would choose to come again. We, at the Association, are humbled by the support shown to us whichever borough we visit.”

People whistled and clapped and Mycroft waited serenely for it to die down.

“Now, let us not waste any more time. Most of you are familiar with the protocol. Shall we start with...” Mycroft scanned the room and John studied his nails. “Ah yes, you, why don’t we start with you. Come, introduce yourself.”

The 17 year old boy from the waiting area stood up and looked nervously at both vampires, as if  he couldn’t decide who to pitch his introduction to. Sherlock was still absorbed in his phone, not sparing a glance at the people assembled.

Mycroft motioned him to the front of the room, “Come here, child. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“M’ names Max,” he said, looking up at Mycroft and then peeking at Sherlock to check if he was listening. “I’m 17, from Wembely and I’m graduating this year. I’m an O negative, and I would really, really love it if-”

“Next!” Sherlock barked, waving the boy away but not looking up from his phone. The poor lad looked crestfallen.

“But I-”

“Next!” Sherlock thundered, finally looking up from his phone. John sucked in a breath, the man’s gaze was glittering in what was definitely malice, the pale colouring not lending a shred of warmth. He reminded John of a hulking praying mantis, with his slanting eyes and angular face. His body was all lean lines and sharp edges, tense with barely contained energy. Max took an involuntary step back and John couldn’t help but disapprove. There was no need to intimidate a child. 

“Is he always like this?” he whispered to Molly. She nodded, managing to look terrified as well as crushingly in love all in one go. Poor girl, John sympathised.

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft chatised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, swinging his legs on the floor so he was sitting upright. “I do not understand why you force me to these torturous things. Every last human here is a waste of my time-”

“You haven’t even glanced at them yet!” Mycroft snapped. Molly winced and John had the impression that Mycroft had said something very wrong indeed. The vampire known as Sherlock jumped up from the couch, casual with his super human speed, grinning in triumph at his brother.

He rounded on the group now cowering on the couches and pointed to John's right, where a bunch of young women were watching the man on stage in fascination and horror.

“25, bisexual going by how unnecessarily close she’s sitting to her friend, unemployed and desperately needing money, probably an A negative.” He swivelled and pointed to a couch in the corner, where a man and woman were seated. “Married, but hiding it to increase their chances of getting chosen”. He crossed the stage and now was staring directly in John's direction. Molly tensed, but Sherlock seemed  more interested in the people behind them,

“Teacher, her boyfriend's cheating on her but she doesn’t want to admit it so she’s here to make him jealous-” his eyes flicked to his right “- the blonde one is actually a man, the one sitting next to him is a coke addict,  _gay_ , -” he moved again, focussing on the front row. He reminded John of an dancer showing off to an audience, “- Anthropology student, child of divorce, oh dear god are you people purposely being dull, this one’s Rh positive!”

“Enough!” Mycroft roared, his fangs extended. Several people gasped and John didn’t blame them. He’d dealt with vampires before, and extending fangs meant they were a moment away from tearing your throat out. To his credit, Sherlock looked more surprised than alarmed at his brother's outburst, not extending his fangs in turn.

“Oh stop being such a drama queen,” he sneered, flopping down on the couch again. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Mycroft glanced at the humans in the room, obviously embarrassed and covered his mouth with his hand. He took a deep breath.  “I will not tolerate this anymore, Sherlock. You  _will_  take a personal donor or, so help me, I will tell Mummy.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared. John couldn’t help but smile a little. He reminded him of Harry when John used to steal her barbies. Molly gave a little sniffle next to him and John raised an eyebrow at her.

“He didn’t even recognise me,” she said, her voice shaking with unshed tears.

“Oh Molly, believe me you’re better off,” he whispered, patting her arm. This only seemed to make her more upset because she buried her face in his shoulder, her sniffing getting louder. Both the anthropologist and child of divorce glanced behind curiously. John tensed, not liking that they were drawing attention.

Luckily, the brothers were still arguing on stage.

“ – I would take this more seriously if you’d just get more interesting people!”

“ – I have been to 8 boroughs in the last three months, Sherlock! You reject everybody-”

“Have you seen them? Cattle, that’s all they are! Brainless, uneducated, boring-”

Molly seemed to take the uneducated comment as proof that Sherlock hadn’t recognised her and she let out a sob, desperately trying to burrow deeper into his shoulder. He awkwardly patted her on the back.  This time the blonde man/woman behind them whispered in his ear,

“All right there, mate?”

John winced, “Fine, fine, thanks. She’s just tired, that’s all.”

“Proper bastard, that one,” he agreed, even though John had already turned back to fix his eyes on the stage. He switched to rubbing soothing circles on Molly's back, like his mum used to do for him whenever he was upset. 

“ – Sherlock, I have been assured that there are highly educated people in this group-”

“Oh, so what! Everyone here is a clone -”

“That’s not true-”

“Yes it is! Same age group, same qualifications, same brand of under-”

“What about that one?”

“The same! Are you blind Mycrof- oh. ”

John realised that the brothers had stopped arguing the same time he felt the entire room's eyes on him. His face heated up and he let go of Molly, who was down to sniffles and wiping her nose on his jacket.

“Why don’t you introduce yourself?” Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella and looking pleased with himself.

“Er, John Watson,” he said into the pregnant silence. He tried not to focus on the praying mantis image as Sherlock’s gaze sharpened and narrowed. It made it easier to stare right back into those strange eyes. Molly had sat up now and she let out a startled breath as Sherlock frowned at her.

“Come here,” he ordered. John tensed, his stomach tightening in a way that didn’t bode well. It was the same feeling he had gotten the day he had been shot.

Molly nudged him. “Go on!”

“I think he means you,” John muttered.

“No,” the vampire said sharply, “I meant you.”

“Right...” John said, feeling confused and annoyed. This was not going ideally. No bloody vampire was supposed to notice him! He was supposed to be back home by 6 and in his bed before 7.  _And then what_? A traitorous voice in head whispered.

John pursed his lips, refusing to indulge those thoughts. Right now, his instincts were telling him he needed all his wits about him. He pushed himself off the couch with not a little difficulty, earning a few sniggers from the people around him. He ignored them, squared his shoulders and limped to the front, stopping right below the stage. It was only raised only about a foot, but John understood the psychological advantage that went with looking down on people. He smirked inwardly, fortunately for him, being short had made him almost immune to it.

Both the vampires studied him in silence for a few moments, but it was Mycroft who spoke first. “What’s your blood type?”

“B negative,” Sherlock said instantly, before John could get a word in. John blinked, wondering how in hell he knew that. Had they already read his file?

“I deduced it,” Sherlock said.

“I never asked how you knew,” John said, annoyed now.

“But you thought it,” the vampire said, smirking. The next thing John knew the man had grabbed his arm and was hauling him up to the stage. Fear rose like a wave and he resisted automatically, reflexes exploding as he pushed his weight back, twisted right and jammed his cane into the vampire's kidneys. There was a pained grunt from the man above, and he was shoved away.

John tottered back, but managed to keep his balance, his heart thudding in his ears. There was a ringing silence around him, punctuated by shocked gasps and loud mutters of “Nutter!”.

He swallowed, all too aware that he had just attacked a vampire and, worse, he had overreacted. In hindsight, it didn’t seem like the vampire had been trying to hurt him; just help him up onto the stage. Great, Watson, why not just broadcast to the world that you have PTSD? He glanced at Mycroft, who was looking at him with a combination of wary admiration as well as disapproval. It was an expression he recognised well, usually directed at him by his commanding officers. 

Sherlock was just about straightening up, clutching his side and John braced for a painful punch to his face.

But Sherlock just grinned at him, a wide delighted grin that John thought was a little mad.

“I’ll take him,” he wheezed.

“What?” John said, his voice tinged with panic.

“Are you sure, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, twirling his umbrella again. “He seems ... damaged.”

“Hey!” John protested.

The vampires ignored him. “Yes, I’m sure!” Sherlock snapped, “Would you rather I pick the underage idiot?”

The umbrella stopped mid twirl, “Yes, I would, actually.”

Sherlock smirked. “Too bad. I want him.”

“Very well,” Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh. “Mindy will draw up the papers.”

“Excuse me!” John said loudly, “What in blazes are you on about?”

Sherlock jumped off the stage to stand directly in front of him, leaning down to peer at his face. John stood his ground, glaring at the pale eyed vampire’s obvious glee.

“You’re my personal donor! Come, here’s your cane. Mycroft will get your things sent to my home.”

John’s ears felt hot as he accepted the cane, but he didn’t budge an inch. “Sorry, but there’s been some sort of mistake. I have no interest in becoming a PD.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. He flicked his eyes to his brother who was watching with a bland look of disinterest. Mycroft gave a small shake of head and Sherlock nodded in reply.

“You can’t decline.”

“What?” John’s temper was returning.

“I’m afraid so, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft informed him from above. “Being a Personal Donor is a great honour, you see.  Not accepting would be unthinkable, a crime even. Why, just look at all the disappointed people behind you.”

John glared at Mycroft for good measure before turning to look at the dismayed expressions on everyone’s faces as they filed out of the room.

“So what? I just came to donate to the bank , I have no intention to become anyone’s PD.”

Sherlock frowned and glanced at Mycroft. Again, his brother gave him a small short shake of head. “Doctor Watson ,” Mycroft continued, like he was trying his patience.  “There is no recorded personal donor ever regretting his or her getting chosen by vampire.  The laws clearly states that entry into the volunteer room means you are willing.”

“But I was forced in here!” he said, outraged.

“Then you should have lodged a formal complaint stating reasons for your exclusion from the screening protocol,” Mycroft said coolly.

“Fine!” John said, taking a step away from Sherlock. He was still standing too close. “I will.”

“It is too late, Doctor,” Mycroft said, smiling down at him. John felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. 

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock was scowling. “Why are you making such a fuss! I won’t be bad to you.”

John narrowed his eyes. “I did not choose to be here. Can't you understand that? Choose someone else!”

“Oh, Dull!” Sherlock spat, “Come along now!”  He was reaching for him again and John took another step back. His leg throbbed with the effort.

“Sh – Sherlock,  let him go,” a small voice said.

Both men turned to the source of the voice, a small woman who was twisting her skirt in her nervousness.

“Go away, Molly,” Sherlock said coldly.

“He doesn’t want you,” she pressed on, her voice trembling.

The vampire bared his fangs at her and John widened his eyes at the casual display.

“Oh? Should I take you instead then? That’s what you want , isn’t it?” he sneered.

Molly grimaced, “That’s – that’s not what I meant!”

“Then leave me be! I tolerate enough of you at Barts.”

“There’s no need to-” John started.

Molly shook her head. “It’s all right John,” she said in a tone that also meant ‘I’m used to it’. “I thought maybe I could help, that’s all.”

John felt warmth flood him at her selflessness.

“Don’t worry, Molly. I can handle it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Are you going to come now? Don’t bore me.”

John contemplated running. Turning and running just to piss them off, but while Sherlock seemed like the type to think that a human running from a vampire was funny, Mycroft on the other hand would take it much more seriously. He didn’t want to risk being sent to jail for assault or treason. 

Sherlock took his silence for acceptance. “Good! Mycroft, get his things sent to Baker Street.”

It was a second before John realised the full meaning of those words. His gun! Shit! If anyone from the government found his gun he was going to be in big, big trouble. He wouldn’t be able to protect Bill either, who was still serving in Afghanistan. 

“Wait! Wait a moment,” he said, swallowing.  “Let me pack an overnight bag, at least.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “I hope you’re not stupid enough to think you can run.”

“If I am, would you choose someone else?” John tried. 

“Only after I’d bled you dry,” Sherlock informed him.

Molly gasped and John hoped his horror didn’t show on his face. “That’s murder,” he pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged and looked to Mycroft.

“Death by feeding, while tragic, is accidental manslaughter at best,” the older brother said promptly. “Bail at hundred thousand pounds.”

“You’re joking,” John breathed, not missing how Mycroft had said hundred thousand pounds. Like it was mere pocket change.

“No, he isn’t. He is the one responsible for the laws after all. He takes them very seriously,” Sherlock said, like he thought it was funny.

“In any case, Doctor,” Mycroft continued, “I am sure we can allow you to go home to pick up a few essentials to make up for this ... inconvenience. However, I would advise against running.” The umbrella twirled,  “It never does end well.”

John gripped his cane, “I thought no donor ever regretted his or her getting chosen by a vampire.”

Mycroft smiled at him, cold and amused. “I said no  _recorded_  personal donor ever regretted his or her getting chosen by vampire.”

John clamped down on his fury, aware that arguing with Mycroft, who was obviously a very powerful man, was useless. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Like hiding his gun. Dismayed, he realised he would probably have to get rid of it permanently.

“Fine, Er. I’ll just leave, shall I?”

“Sherlock, go with him. He is your responsibility now, ” Mycroft said.

But Sherlock was now typing on his phone and didn’t respond. John glanced at Mycroft who was still smiling that private smile of his. It was more than a little unnerving.

“I can go alone,” John said, trying not to sound too hopeful. He didn’t think he would be able to get his gun past the younger vampire.  

“All right. Sherlock will come and collect you later tonight. Won’t you, Sherlock?”

The younger vampire was frowning at this blackberry screen, “What? Yes, of course!”

“That’s settled then. Good evening, Doctor Watson, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft said and left.

John paused for a second, watching Sherlock mutter while he typed into his phone. He felt a hand on his arm, “He’s always like this. Come on, let’s go.” Molly said.

John let himself be led out of the donation camp, feeling light headed. The thud of their footsteps on the pavement, the cars rushing by, the smell of damp London air, it all seemed surreal. Maybe he was still in the hospital in Dubai and this was a dream.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said suddenly.

John blinked down at her, grateful for the line of warmth she provided as she walked next to him.

“If I hadn’t been crying this wouldn’t have happened. I know you didn’t want this, I’m so sorry.”

John sighed, “You don’t have to apologise, Molly. You can never predict these kinds of things.”

“Can I – can I help you with anything?” she asked. John studied the determined set of her mouth. He had a hard time working out whether she meant help him pack or help him escape the country.

“Give me your number, I’ll call you if I need anything.”

 

**End Part One**


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world world where vampires and humans co exist (mostly), being a personal donor to a vampire was a highly coveted position. Unfortunately for John Watson, he didn't share that opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On with the Show! Beta'd by the lovely Hopeinashes.

**We Meet Again (2/2) :**

Thirty minutes later, John had cut out a neat gun shaped hole into his old copy of Greys Anatomy and carefully placed his handgun in it. That done, he stuffed a couple of his old medical journals, pants and shirts into his bag and zipped it up. It had taken a total of 15 minutes for him to come to a decision.

He did not want to become a PD.

Harry had told him how it was for people who were chosen. Glorified whores and hamburgers, she had called them, laughing. He had always heard rumours when he was in Afghanistan about how vampires treated their PD’s but no one gave it much importance. ‘Just because some husbands beat their wives doesn’t mean everybody doesn’t want to get married,’ one vampire had tried to explain, while John had been stitching him up. It didn’t sound very comforting.

He surveyed his room, feeling clear headed for the first time in months. He wasn’t going to ‘run’ as the Holmess’ so crudely called it. He was going to escape. While Sherlock may have picked him in front of witnesses, there was yet to be any paperwork that he had signed. More importantly, Sherlock hadn’t even bitten him yet. In vampire speak, that was as good as not staking claim at all. He would take a cab to Euston station, take another cab to a rental agency he knew, drive to Milton Keyes, get on a train to Holyhead, and then take a ferry to Ireland.  The government would never get into a squabble over a personal donor with Ireland. Especially after that car bomb that had exploded a week ago in Belfast. After that, it would be child’s play to get onto a flight to Europe. 

Satisfied, he scribbled “Cannes?” on a notepad and then tore off the page and threw it in the bin. If Sherlock did indeed remember to come fetch him, it was best to let him think he was on his way to France. That would be the conventional and quickest way to get out of the country.

 But John had learned from Afghanistan that sometimes you needed to think out of the box to survive. He had no doubt that the vampires would check his trash for clues. It hadn’t escaped him that both brothers had taken one look at him to conclude that he was a doctor, and it had taken Sherlock merely a few seconds to deduce what he did about the others in the room. He took a deep breath, shaking away his nervousness. Working under pressure, that’s what surgeons are best at, right Watson?

He picked up his phone and dialled Molly’s number.

*

Molly Hooper was terrified. She had often dreamt of Sherlock Holmes in her home, preferably naked and helping her cook dinner. But never, ever , even in her wildest nightmares did she imagine him raging at her in her living room, fangs bared like he wanted to rip her head right off her shoulders.  She didn’t know whether the presence of his brother, legs crossed and sitting calmly in her armchair, made the situation worse or better.

“You said he asked you if you had any Euros!”, he roared.

Molly shrank back into the couch, “B – but he did.”

Sherlock turned on Mycroft, “And your flunkies said they found a note with Cannes written on it in the bin.”

“They did,” Mycroft said, serene in the face of his sibling’s wrath.

“Then why isn’t he on that boat or the train or the flight!” Sherlock snarled, pacing the room.

“He was spotted at Euston, Sherlock. It’s only a matter of time before we find out where he went.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, suddenly still. “He didn’t take any train, did he?”

“No,” Mycroft provided.

Sherlock groaned, both hands in his hair, “Oh how could I have been so  _stupid_! Of course he didn’t take the train. Too traceable! Check all the car rental agencies around Euston.”

“I already have.”

Sherlock glared at his brother, “No! Stop it, stop it! You are not going to find him before I do.”

“Maybe if you stopped behaving like a child, I wouldn’t be forced to find him at all. You should have taken him home Sherlock -”

“Oh, not this again! It was important! Lestrade said there’d been a third murder-”

Mycroft’s phone buzzed and Sherlock stopped talking, eyes hooked on his brother. The older vampire sniffed, read the message and carefully put the mobile back into his pocket. Molly had a feeling he was being slow on purpose.  Cruel, she thought. Sherlock already looked like he was ready to tear the apartment to shreds.

“The car was abandoned at Milton Keynes,” he said finally.

“Milton Keynes?” Sherlock frowned, “Milton Key.. why Milton.. Oh! Oh!” He grabbed his phone and typed into it, his eyes flicking across the screen at inhuman speed.

“France?” Mycroft inquired politely.

“No, Holyhead! ” Sherlock said, grinning like it was the best news in the world. He tossed his phone to Mycroft. “The last train leaves at twenty fourty .”

“He’s already on it, then.” Mycroft said, squinting at the screen. 

“Yes, but you can get your idiots to Holyhead before that. If you don’t, he’ll be in Ireland before dawn.” Sherlock looked delighted by the news, like John had surprised him by his cunning. Molly looked at him in wonder. The only time she had seen that expression on his face was when he was examining corpses.

Mycroft had picked up on that as well, going his sly expression . “I could. But why would I want to, Sherlock.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looming over the other vampire. There was a hint of fangs as he sneered, “Can’t resist an opportunity , can you?”

“How can I, when you rarely make it so easy.”

“Fine! I’ll take a look at your stupid case.”

“As well as the next five I give you. And you won’t be looking, dear brother, you will be  _solving_.” Mycroft said, smiling. His eyes were ice, and Molly felt fear curling in her stomach. 

Sherlock’s face was quickly turning red , “Two cases!”

“Three.”

Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration, “Fine! Just get me him. Now!”

Mycroft’s smile reached his eyes for a split second, “Whatever you wish, Sherlock.”

He left and Molly was suddenly left to deal with a furious and excited Sherlock Holmes.

“He’s smarter than I thought, Molly!” He was grinning, wide and happy. “Ireland! Maybe he’ll last longer than the others.”

“How did you know it was Ireland?” Molly asked despite herself.

Sherlock collapsed into the armchair his brother had just vacated.

“It was obvious really. Watson is a reasonably smart man. The note and the call to you were attempts to throw us off his trail.”

“Ireland uses Euros too!” Molly defended, hating the thought of John using her like that.

Sherlock was unimpressed, “Don’t be daft, Molly. He knew that the first thing we would do was check his phone records, and that would lead us right to you. Coupled with the note and your reluctant admission that he asked you for money meant that our first assumption would be France. After all, wouldn’t that be where an average person wanting to leave the country’s influence go to? 

He then rented a car and abandoned it at Milton Keynes. There could be a number of places to go from there, even France, but he needed to leave the country quickly, and that meant using the train or airport. But going out of the country directly would entail a passport being scanned and would lead us straight to him. His only other option would be to take a train or a flight to the furthest part of the country and then travel illegally by boat from there. Again it could be France, but Milton Keynes,  why such a specific place. It was obvious in the end.  He wouldn’t want to go anywhere near an airport, too many cameras. So , what train, directly preferably, would reach a port that sent ferrys out of the country and passed Milton Keynes junction at around 8 pm on a Thursday night?”

Molly was breathless as she listening to him speak. “Er, the train to Holyhead?”

“Exactly! Ireland is only an hour away from there. It was surprisingly clever for a  _human_.”  Molly had heard him say ‘idiot’ the same way several times.  

“John’s a nice man.” Molly felt compelled to add.

Sherlock ignored her.

She swallowed, wanting tea but that would mean passing Sherlock on the armchair, so she stayed put on the couch, hoping he would leave.

_ Oh John _ , she sighed.  _I hope you’re all right._

**

Squashed between two hulking men in grey suits and back ties, John couldn’t help but feel hopeless. He had almost made it, he thought bitterly. Being accosted in the empty loo, mid piss, in Hollyhead station by two armed men  had been a unpleasant surprise. He had tried fighting, a dark part of his mind willing the men to just use their guns and get it over with, but common sense had prevailed, the painful right hook to his jaw might also have had something to do with it, and he had accepted defeat. It had ended with him being pushed into a black car with tinted windows, sitting in between one smirking vampire and another stony faced human. They both looked like part time bouncers, so it was with great regret that John accepted that escaping was going to be impossible.

The car stopped and the vampire gripped his arm and pulled him out of the car. John tripped and his cane clattered to the ground . He resisted, trying to pick it up.

“Leave it,” said the human. 

“Is this how you treat disabled veterans?” John snapped. The vampire hauled him to his feet with a casual flick of his arm and John paled at the show of strength.

“You aren’t a veteran anymore Doc, you’re a PD,” the human drawled. John glared at him in the dark, hoping the other man could see the full extent of his loathing.

The vampire nudged him. “’s not so bad. I would love to be a PD. Money fer nothing, innit. ”

John didn’t reply as he was dragged across, what was quickly becoming apparent, a tarmac. A bloody tarmac.

“Here’s your ride,” the vampire said, sounding almost envious.

John looked up to see a civilian helicopter, probably a AS350, standing innocently before him. He’d been told that it was exactly this helicopter that had transferred him to the Kabul military hospital when he had been shot.  He gulped, thanking god that the rotators weren’t already on. He didn’t know how he would react to the familiar sound. Whether he would break down and cry, or laugh hysterically.

The vampire made sure he had secured all the seat belts before handing him a pair of mufflers. John put them on, numb. He didn’t even react when a grey suited woman handcuffed him to his seat. “Just so you don’t get any ideas,” she assured him, smiling and retreating to sit beside him. He dug his nails into his skin and screwed his eyes shut as the helicopter started, his heart thumping in his chest. Shit, he cursed as the engine roared to life. The machine moved up with a sudden lurch and for a moment John was back in Afghanistan- Choking for air and screaming in pain, blurred hands soaked in blood, Bill mouthing something over the deafening sound of the blades, sand in his mouth, the velvety ceiling of the helicopter- John was absurdly glad that there were handcuffs. He didn’t trust himself very much at the moment.

The woman touched his arm and he startled, causing her to flinch back.

“You all right?” she yelled over the din of the blades.

He nodded, cataloguing his symptoms. Heart racing, palms sweating, throat closing, flash backs. He was having a panic attack. She offered him some water but he shook his head, concentrating on breathing. He would get through this, he promised himself. He just had to breath and block out the trigger.

Breath in.

Breath out.

 Breath in.

 Breath out.

*

By the time the helicopter touched down and John was bundled into another black car, he was exhausted.  Mentally, physically, tired down to his soul. He slumped in his seat, watching London flicker by. It was early morning, probably four, John guessed. He hoped Sherlock would just get the killing part over with, he didn’t seem like a sadist.

*

The first thing that John noticed about Sherlock’s apartment, when he was dumped unceremoniously on the floor, was that it was messy. Very messy; books, boxes and papers strewn on every available surface.  _Was that a skull?_

“What did you do to him?”

John looked up from his kneeling position on the carpet to catch Sherlock’s gaze. It was piercing in its intensity, looking him up and down as if he could read everything about John in the folds of his skin.

“Nothing,” the grey suited woman defended. “We got him like this.”

“Idiots,” snarled Sherlock, bending down to grab John's arm and hauling him up. John didn’t resist. He was too tired to. The vampire held him by the shoulders and peered at him, turning him this way and that. John refused to make eye contact, studiously looking away.

“I assure you, Sherlock, that my people didn’t harm him.”

John tensed, feeling a trickle of fear as he recognised the voice. Mycroft. What the bloody hell was the brother doing here?

Sherlock scowled, and then pivoted him towards Mycroft, still holding his shoulders.

“Do you really call this not harming?”

It was like he was complaining to his big brother about a broken toy.

Mycroft sighed. “If Doctor Watson resisted, it is no fault of mine.”

John’s temper clicked back into place like a switch. Something about the older vampire irked him.  “Well maybe if your _people_ didn’t try and kidnap me, I wouldn’t have to resist!” he snapped.

Mycroft ‘s eyes flicked behind John, obviously communicating something to his brother. “Well,” he said a moment later. “I really must be going. It’s been a pleasure, Doctor Watson, Sherlock.”

“Good _bye_ ,” said Sherlock with a annoyed huff. 

John was nudged towards a cosy looking armchair.

“Sit,” the vampire ordered.

John hesitated, but his stiff leg and shoulder soon made the decision for him. He half collapsed into chair, trying not to groan when all his aching muscles made themselves known.

“I would give you a painkiller, but I don’t like the taste of them in my food.”

John blinked open his eyes, embarrassed that he hadn’t even realised when he had closed them. Sherlock was sitting on the armchair opposite him, leaning forward with his elbows on knees, palms pressed together in front of his face in a parody of a Namaste .

John refused to shrink back into the cushions. “Are you going to... kill me?” Oh Jesus,  _what had become of his life._

“Haven’t decided,” was the instant reply.

“Right,” John said weakly. “Of course. I’ll just wait here then, shall I?”

Sherlock sat straighter, long arms coming to settle on the hand rests. “Are you making a joke?” he asked, sounding curious.

“Can’t you tell?” he couldn’t help but snipe back.

Sherlock looked away and into the fire place. “No one’s made a joke before.”

“Before you killed them?” John provided, eyes taking in the living room. It was quite homely, he conceded, if you ignored the mess.

“I assure you, Doctor Watson, that I have not killed any of my personal donors before.”

John grimaced, “How many have you had?”

Sherlock groaned, stretching his legs and slumping into the chair. It was like he had suddenly gone boneless, his hands dangling from the arm rests till his fingers scraped the floor. “Don’t remind me of those dullards,” he said to the ceiling. 

John shifted in his seat. It seemed less and less likely that Sherlock planned to kill him. So just what was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t even considered what he would do if he was brought back alive. He sneaked a peak  at the door, wondering if he made a run for it –

“Don’t even think about it,” Sherlock said sharply. John whipped his head around, frowning when he saw Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle. He was still staring at the ceiling.

“You should just let me go,” John blurted out. He had spied a chemistry set in the kitchen. If Sherlock was a man of science, then maybe he would listen to reason.

The vampire ignored him, apparently deep in thought. John ploughed on. “Look I’m not personal donor material, all right? I know you might think of me as a novelty. I don’t blame you, if those kids are all you’re exposed to, but I can’t do this! If you knew me, you would understand-”

Sherlock suddenly sat up, his hair tousled like a mad mans. “I do know you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I do know you,” the vampire insisted, jumping from the chair and looking down at him with hands on his hips.

“I think I would remember you if I’d met you before,” John said, alarmed at  the sudden bursts of movement from the other man. It was like trying to keep up with a mini twister.

“Not like that,” Sherlock snapped. He swivelled away, the dressing gown he was wearing over his shirt and pants swirling around him. “I know you’re a disabled war hero recently returned from Afghanistan, or is it Iraq?” He didn’t wait for an answer, pacing the room. “Your limp is partly psychosomatic, going by how you forget about it when you’re standing. Mycroft said you’re a doctor so the fact that they discharged you after you got shot means that you lost full usage of your hands, but you seem like you have perfect mobility. Therefore you must have been a surgeon, since it’s a specialisation which needs long hours of fine motor control, confirmed  by the shape and size of your hands. You’re 36 and yet you were compelled to come to a blood bank to complete your donation obligations, meaning you’ve been in the army for at least 7 years. Most interesting of all, you have never been screened,” Sherlock stopped mid pace, and in a second he was standing above John, so close that his shins knocked against Johns knees.

“Obviously any idiot can conclude that you have family that has been helping you out of your civilian duties. Close family, since the laws allow for alternate donating only to first degree relatives. Your phone would suggest a brother-”

“My - my phone?” John spluttered.

“You threw it in the trash outside your bedsit,” Sherlock said, grinning at him. “Your phone would suggest a brother, it’s a young man’s gadget,” he continued like he hadn’t been interrupted. “I know he’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Why else would you be staying in that dingy little place and more importantly consent to come to donation camp if you could go to your own brother?”

Sherlock leaned down and this time John did try and burrow deeper into the sofa. The vampire would have none of it. In a flash he had straddled John, thighs caging him in and both hands coming to rest on the back of the armchair.  

“Christ!” He hissed, trying to push the vampire away. The warm body didn’t move an inch.

“Don’t you want to hear the best part?” Sherlock rumbled into his ear.

John turned his head away, trying to buck the other man off.

“Stop squirming,” the vampire complained.

“Then get off me!” John shouted, furious. He shoved the man’s chest with all his might and Sherlock leaned back. John took in huge gulps of air, forcing himself to calm down. Strong thighs still kept him trapped, but at least he could breath in without smelling the other man's aftershave.

“You’re not letting me tell you the best part, John,”  The vampire said, irritation creeping into his features.

John looked at him in disbelief. Did this madman actually think he gave a shit? Sherlock must have read his mind because his eyes flashed.  And then there were fingers in his hair and his head was being wrenched sideways painfully. His hands went automatically to pry them off but his right hand was pinned to the sofa the moment he tried. His left hand clenched uselessly over the long fingers that had fisted in his hair.

“Let – go,” he seethed.

There was a annoyed sigh from the vampire and John realised in horror that he could feel the other’s breath on his neck.

“The best part, John” Sherlock said patiently, soft lips grazing his skin, “is that not only have you never been screened before, I do believe you have never donated before.  _Ever._ ” The last word was whispered right into his ear, like a filthy promise shared between lovers.

John started struggling again, trying to twist out of the vampires iron grasp. “That’s – that’s not true!” he wheezed.

Sherlock tightened the grip on his hair, pulling his neck to an angle that made his eyes water.

“Not anymore, no.” he was informed . Fangs dimpled his skin, a pause before the inevitable, like a pendulum at its summit and then all John felt was white hot pain as they bore down, slicing into his artery. He let out a shout of agony as his body convulsed, limbs jerking to free themselves. The vampire just held on tighter, pressing him into the cushions until John struggled to breathe. Dimly, he realised that just two days ago he had been contemplating offing himself and here he was fighting for his life.

John lost track of time. He could feel the others man’s adams apple bobbing against his skin as he drank, smell the sweat that clung to him, hear the gentle gurgles of swallowing; It was almost unbearably intimate.  He tried to laugh at the absurdity but it came out as a pained choke. Sherlock paused, using the grip on his hair to move his head again, this time to a more comfortable position. John refused to open his eyes.

“You taste marvellous,” the vampire told him. “Better than I’d hoped.”

“Is that,” John croaked, “Is that supposed make me feel better?”

“Yes.”

John suppressed a sob, “It – it really doesn’t.”

When Sherlock didn’t reply, John cracked an eye open to see the vampire considering him with a raised eyebrow. The other man's lips were stained red and he had a flush on his cheeks that made him look very young, even oddly attractive . John jerked away from the pale gaze, horrified at his strain of thoughts.

“I’m still hun-gry,” the vampire enunciated, gripping his jaw and forcing John to look at him.

John swallowed, hoping he was misinterpreting the predatory glint in the other man’s eyes. Sherlock smirked at him, swooping down and clearing his doubt by pressing a firm kiss to his mouth. It was a close mouthed, almost chaste kiss; a question rather than a demand, but John’s fear returned in a wave of nausea. He wrenched his face sideways, tasting his own blood on his lips. The vampire didn’t insist, fingers falling away from his jaw and sliding back up into his hair. They didn’t pull this time, just tangled.

“I won’t force you,” Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to his throat. John wondered whether the vampire thought he was being reassuring. He contemplated telling him that soothing kisses didn’t work when one had fangs.

“Just get this over with,” John finally bit out, feeling light headed. Just how much blood had he already lost?

“If you insist, John.”

The pain returned, but not as overwhelming as before. It was duller, shallower. A strange kind of torture, John decided with a distressed groan. Was the vampire really going to bleed him dry? How much time had passed? His brain felt like cotton, black and yellow dots clouding his vision.

“Stop, stop,” he mumbled, mouth dry. Sherlock wasn’t pinning his right hand anymore but he could barely feel it, his pinky twitching like it belonged to someone else. He could hear the disembodied voice of his biology instructor at the back of his mind.  _The average human adult male has 10-12 pints of blood..._

“Shut up,” the vampire grumbled, “I can still take -”

John didn’t hear the remainder of the sente nce.

**

John woke to a pounding headache, worse than any hangover he’d ever had. It was like his blood was trying burst out of his veins. His neck was hurting too ; dull pulses of pain that throbbed in time with his head. He groaned in discomfort.   Just the thought of moving left him exhausted. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to concentrate through the haze of sluggishness. 

_Where was he?_ _  What happened last night _ ?

His memory came back in disjointed images, making him nauseous.  The donation centre – Molly - the Holmess’ – escaping and then... Sherlock. He cursed , blinking his eyes open. He was in a bed, he realised as he sat up.  He pushed the blanket off himself and carefully lowered his legs to the floor, ignoring his dehydrated muscles as they screamed in protest.  He looked down at himself and saw that he was wearing boxers and an old t shirt that fitted too tight to be his. Oh God, had the vampire changed him?

The next thing he was going to do was take his gun and shoot the smug bastard right in his face. That’s how you killed them, wasn’t it? A shot to the head, not the heart. He let himself imagine it for a moment, the surprise on the vampire’s face before he shot the expression right off - John groaned again, holding his head in his hands. No, killing Sherlock wouldn’t solve anything. He’d only be thrown in jail. It would be a rather large waste of his bullet and time.

He spotted his bag laying haphazardly on the wooden floor, like someone had tossed it there as an afterthought. It was still zipped up and looked undisturbed so that was a relief. Behind his bag was a sizable wooden closet but other than that, the room was bare save for a bedside table .

He shivered when he realised his feet had gone numb . _The heating hasn’t been turned on_ , John surmised, frowning. Who forgets the heating in October? He glanced behind him, grimacing when his neck smarted in protest. The sky beyond the window was  a dull grey. But that could mean anything from ten in the morning to four in the  evening in London. He cast around for his mobile and felt a disproportional amount of fury when he remembered he’d thrown it in the trash. 

If he was ever going to get out of this personal donor thing, he needed to call a lawyer. John knew that when Sherlock did get bored off him, and he was hoping that would be quickly, he would probably be shifted to a lower grade vampire. Hi stomach twisted, there was a reason why being a PD was called a life time occupation. He needed to find his mobile. Hadn’t the vampire mentioned he had found it last night?

He took a deep breath and slowly pushed himself off the bed. He managed to balance for a second, before recognizing that he had underestimated the amount of blood loss. His vision spun and pain lanced through his shoulder. He groped for his cane automatically, cursing when it dawned on him that he had been forced to leave it behind. His leg gave out from underneath him and he fell face first to the floor with a loud “oomph!”

John stayed on the ground till the worst of the muscle cramps were over, detesting the wave of helplessness that washed over him. It was a long while before he could muster up the energy  to move, hauling himself back on the bed by gripping the duvet for support. He rolled onto his back, arms and legs splayed, breathing hard. He was worn out already. How the hell was he going to search for his mobile if he couldn't even stand? And where was Sherlock? He needed fluid and food to get his strength back. Didn’t the vampire feel even the tiniest bit responsible for his plight?

There was a creaking on the stairs and John lifted his head, hating himself for hoping it was Sherlock. Christ, he was thirsty. 

The door swung open to reveal a mousy elderly woman dressed in purple. She was staring at him in shock and John flushed, remembering he was only half dressed. He tried to cover himself with the duvet. 

“Oh, none of that,” the lady tutted, rushing to his side. Her hands immediately went to his forehead as if checking for fever and she shook her head in disapproval. She then gently moved his neck to the side.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, frowning.

John blinked up at her, absurdly grateful for her concern. “Water,” he mumbled.

 “How long have you been here?” she asked sharply.

John swallowed, his mouth felt like cotton. “I  - I don’t know.” He wished she would just get him some water.

She pursed her lips. “Don’t you worry sweetheart. I’ll be right up with some water and something to eat.”

John nodded and she promptly disappeared down the stairs. It was only fifteen minutes later that she came back up, holding a tray of – oh was that heavenly smell  _chicken soup?_  The woman sat on the bed and placed the tray on the bed side table. His eyes followed her movement , his stomach rumbling in sympathy.

“There there, dear. You need to sit up and drink this first.” She helped him up and he took the offered glass, peering at it. It was a vile colour, almost florescent maroon. He recognised it instantly.

“Where did you get this?” he asked. His voice sounded like sandpaper.

“It’s a blood replenisher, don’t worry,” the woman said, smiling at him.

“They’re expensive,”  John commented. Even the army could barely afford  them.

“Sherlock keeps some in the cabinet.”

John tensed at the mention of the vampire and she picked up on it instantly. “No need to worry, dear. He’s not at home.”

John downed the tonic before replying. “What time is it?”

“2 o clock in the afternoon. It’s the fourteenth. "

He’d been out for 36 hours, he realised in shock.

“I’m Mrs Hudson, the landlady,” the woman introduced.

John plastered a smile on his face, “John, John Watson. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you...” he trailed off.

Mrs Hudson sighed and took the glass from him, “He would have remembered eventually.”

“Right,” John said, feeling sick. Sherlock had dumped him on the bed and then forgotten he’d taken more than 2 pints of blood from him? That utter bastard.

“It’s just that he can get a bit distracted when he’s on a case,” she explained, passing him the tray. John took it gratefully, finishing the chicken soup in less than five minutes. He would be embarrassed but Mrs Hudson was smiling at him fondly, like watching him eat had given her some kind of deep satisfaction.

“Would you hand me a mirror?” John asked.

Mrs Hudson’s eyes flicked to his neck, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“I'm a doctor” he insisted. “I need to see the extent of damage.”

Both eyebrows rose, “A  _doctor_! What in the world has got into that madman! Of all people-”

“Mrs Hudson, thank you, but I really would like a mirror,” John said tightly. He didn’t know what to think of the maternal, if not slightly fond, scolding the old woman was giving a clearly absent Sherlock.

“Oh very well then.” She passed him her compact and John flicked it open, gingerly rotating his head until he could get a good look at the wound. It had been cleaned, he surmised, but carelessly. There were the tell tale stains of blood being wiped away, crusting in horizontal stripes. The wound was two inches above the junction of neck and shoulder, the surrounding tissue already blooming a violent purple. John sighed. That was going to be difficult to hide underneath his jumpers.

It was not as bad as vampire attacks could be, he had to admit. He had seen his share of mutilation, thank you very much, but still, it was not as neat as it could be. As it should be. The incisors marks were not perfectly round but two centimetre vertical gashes. He didn’t know if it was because he had struggled or Sherlock had just been vindictive. Probably vindictive, he guessed. He didn’t think a bite was supposed to hurt that much either. He prodded the bruised flesh , wincing when a bit of fresh blood oozed from the wound.

Mrs Hudson didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. He wondered how many people she had nursed back to health on this bed.

“It’s not infected,” he said, snapping the compact shut.

“Do you need me to do anything?”

“It’s fine. ”A hot towel soaked in savlon and applied to the wound would be ideal, but he would do that later himself . John didn’t want to trouble her.

“You should feel better in a few hours,” she said, patting his arm. “Come downstairs and I’ll make a spot of tea. Just this once, mind you. I’m the landlady, not a maid.”

John nodded and slid back into the covers, watching Mrs. Hudson close the door behind her. He sighed, sleep tugging at him; maybe just a nap, then.

*

He woke to a babble of loud voices downstairs, both male and female. He recognised Mrs Hudson’s shrill tone, clearly harried. He sat up, relieved when his muscles cooperated with him. He felt sore, but not in agony like before. He fingered his wound, craning his head a little to test mobility. He could move it but it still felt like an animal had taken a good chunk out of the side of his neck.

There were loud thumps of several feet from below and John guessed that whoever it was had entered the living room. He got up, unzipped his overnighter and pulled on a new jumper and pants.  He contemplated the Greys Anatomy text for a moment before shrugging and opening it, stuffing the gun down the back of his trousers. One could never be too careful.

Gulping down the glass of water Mrs Hudson, bless her, had left on the bedside table he padded cautiously to the door. He couldn’t hear Sherlock’s voice so John guessed he wasn’t home. The vampire didn’t seem like the quiet type. Satisfied, he turned the knob and slowly limped his way down the stairs. He found the bathroom door and slipped inside, locking the door behind him.

He avoided looking in the mirror; he really didn’t want proof of how terrible he looked. Instead, he opened the cabinet, spotting a vial of blood replenshiner. Mrs Hudson had given him around 3ml before, enough to rejuvenate him but nowhere near enough to make up for the amount he lost. He mixed another drop with water and chugged it down, grimacing at the taste. He then diluted some savlon and soaked the hand towel in it. Carefully, he applied it to his wound, hissing at the sting. He could bandage it but he was afraid that would leave a scar. No way in hell was he going to let that happen.

He used a towel folded neatly on the railing to dry his face and scowled when he realised that it smelled like Sherlock.  Christ, he knew the man one day and he already knew what he smelled like? Furious, he let it drop to the ground into a puddle of water.

The door knob rattled. Once, twice.

“Oi,” a woman called, “Open up! This is the police”

_ The police? _  For one beautiful moment he believed they were there to rescue him. Then he remembered Mycroft Holmes’s cold smile and knew just how unlikely that was.

“Just a minute” he called, not liking how scratchy he sounded. He took several calming breaths to brace himself and then swung open the door. 

The first thing his mind screamed at him was  _vampire_. He gripped the door knob to stop himself from taking a step back. Christ, Harry would laugh at him if she saw him like this. The vampire, woman, he corrected himself, was mixed race and quite pretty. Though right now she was eyeing him suspiciously. He hoped she wouldn’t search him. Having an illegal firearm did invite a lengthy jail sentence.

“Er, hello,” he offered.

She wrinkled her nose in response and then barrelled past him. John stood in the corridor,  watching her throw open the cabinet. She grabbed a bottle and then tossed it into the basin with a crash. John blinked as she picked up another bottle and read the label on the blood replenisher.

“Hey, wait that’s expensive...” he trailed off as she flung it into the waste bin. Well then, John thought, confused, that wasn't peculiar at all.

“Find anything?”a skinny, pale man walked into the corridor from the living room, giving a John a quick up and down.

“Nope. It’s clean,” the woman said, sounding disappointed. She came out of the loo, glancing at John in surprise, like she wasn’t expecting him to still be standing there.

“There’s some stuff in the kitchen,” the man pointed a thumb behind.

She brightened, “Let’s go see, then.”

“Who’s this?” he asked her, tilting his head towards John.

“John Watson,” John said in response. “Er, and you are?”

“Anderson, Scotland Yard.” He said, “This is Sergeant Donovan.”

“Are you the freak’s?” Sergeant Donovan asked, looking pointedly at his neck, where the towel still rested.

John blinked in confusion. Freak? Did she mean Sherlock Holmes?

“Oh come on, does he look like a PD? He’s obviously one of his pulls,” Anderson said, smirking.

Donovon glared at the other man, “It's ten at night and the freak isn’t here. I highly doubt he’s a one night doner.  The freak doesn’t have any. ”

“Maybe he came last night,” Anderson sneered. John decided that he didn’t like him, the prick.

“I’m not a one nighter,” John said coolly , “and even if I was, it’s none of your business.”

Donovan grinned a sly smile. “How’d he manage to get you then? Did he follow you home?”

John didn’t dignify that with an answer, pushing past the duo to head to the living room. He’d grab his coat and get some fresh air. Maybe if he was desperate enough he’d even find a payphone and call Harry.

“Oh, Doctor Watson!” cried Mrs Hudson the moment he entered the living room. She hurried to him, dodging all the men in suits picking apart the flat. “Look at what they’re doing! What would Sherlock say!”

_ Don’t really care, Mrs Hudson _ , he wanted to say, but he was brought up better than that. He moved past her and put on his coat. The chaos was making his head spin. All he wanted was to get out of this flat.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” a silver haired man said to his right, offering his hand.

“John Watson”, he said shaking it. He wondered how to get out of the impending conversation without being too rude.

“You’re new,”  said the detective casually.

“I’m also just leaving,” John said. Had Sherlock actually killed someone, then?

Lestrade gave him a lazy smile. “You haven’t by any chance seen a pink suitcase, have you?”

Vampires, Scotland Yard, Detective Inspectors and now a  _pink suitcase_. Had the world gone crazy? A laugh slipped past him.

“Detective, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

The older man shrugged. “No harm in asking, is there?”

“Found it!” came a triumphant shout from the kitchen.

“Well done, Anderson. Put it next to the fireplace.” 

“Is that what you’re here for, a pink suitcase?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Seemed a bit excessive for a suitcase, to be honest.

“Yeah. Any idea when Sherlock will be back?”

“I don’t know him,” John replied.

Lestrade’s eyes settled on his neck and John flushed, but the man didn’t comment. He was about to turn and leave when the living room door slammed open. 

Sherlock Holmes strode in, eyes alight and livid. 

“Oh Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson said, near tears, “What have you done!”

Sherlock ignored her, striding towards them, eyes blazing .“Lestrade!” he growled. “What are you doing?”

John tensed and Lestrade raised a questioning eyebrow at him. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that Sherlock was charging towards them like a bull in a china shop.

“ I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid,” the detective said to the vampire.

“You can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock snarled.

“Well you can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade shot back. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“What d’you call this then?” Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air.

“It’s a drugs bust,” Lestrade replied cheerfully. John’s eyes widened.  _Drugs bust?_  Jesus, he was personal donor to a spoiled, vindictive _, addict_? Surely there were laws against that.

“I’m not your sniffer dog,” Sherlock bit out.

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog,” the policeman agreed.

“Anderson?” Sherlock said in outrage. “What is  _h_ e doing here on a drugs bust!”

“They volunteered, they all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad but they’re very keen.” The detective seemed pleased with himself.

“Are these human eyes?” Donovon said, walking into the living room with a jar filled with –

John felt like laughing hysterically. Oh dear god, they  _were_  human eyes. Sherlock reacted like he had been burned.

“Put those back!” he demanded.

“They were in the microwave,” she replied, disgust lining her features.

“It’s an experiment!” Sherlock sneered.

The sergeant rolled her eyes and threw a meaningful glance at John, like he was supposed to understand what she meant.

“Keep looking guys!” Lestrade called. “Or you could start to help us properly,”

Sherlock kept pacing. “This is childish!”

“Well I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock this is our case, I’m letting you in but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

“Or what? So – so you make up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

Lestrade shrugged, “Stops being pretend if we find anything.”

“I am clean!” the vampire spat. “I don’t even smoke.” He rolled up his shirt cuffs to show a nicotine patch to the detective. Lestrade gave him a grin.

“Neither do I!”

John didn’t know whether to be relieved or outraged that Sherlock hadn’t even acknowledged his presence yet. Right, he thought, stomach tightening. Maybe it was time to leave. His eyes caught on the armchair he had been sitting on last night and his neck throbbed.

_ Wait a minute, was that his mobile on the floor underneath? _

He sidled to the side while the two men compared patches and quickly bent to pick it up. He took solace in the familiar weight of the gun and his mobile in his jacket pocket. Maybe the day would end well, after all.

“We found Rachel,” Lestrade was saying to the agitated vampire.

John tuned out. He needed some fresh air, to think, to breathe a little. He placed the damp towel on a chair and spotted a blue scarf on the coat mantle. Ah, perfect. He wrapped it around his neck, picked up an umbrella and hobbled out of the living room. He half expected the vampire to grab him before he left, but Sherlock was now shouting  at everybody to shut up. John snorted in disbelief, half amused. What an odd man.

The stairs were a challenge, with his limp and the umbrella proving a bad substitute for a cane, but he made it without tripping on his face. Mrs Hudson was just turning from the front door.

“Could you tell Sherlock that there’s a taxi for him?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

Oh bugger it all. “Ah, I was just on my way out, actually.”

“It’s just that my hip, doctor.” Mrs Hudson grimaced in remembered pain.

John felt his headache returning, “Of course, not a problem. ”

“Oh, thank you dear,”

“Sorry, but can you tell me where I am?”

Mrs Hudson paused, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Oh you poor dear. You shouldn’t let him treat you like this. We’re at 221 Baker Street.”

Central London, John thought as he trudged his way up the stairs. How fortunate. He could hear the vampire raging at the occupants in the room and he felt a bit better. Obviously he was just a prick in general and not specifically to him. He pushed open the door and Sherlock rounded on him with such intensity that John half expected to be attacked. However, the man fell silent, his hands falling to his sides mid-gesture. He looked almost shocked.

“Mrs Hudson said that there’s a taxi for you downstairs,” John said, trying to sound casual.

The vampire squinted. “I didn’t order a taxi,” he said. The other occupants in the room relaxed at the calm reply, the tension bleeding from their stiff postures.

“Oh, all right. ”

Sherlock didn’t stop him when he closed the door, didn’t stop him when he limped back down the stairs, and didn’t stop him when he shut the front door behind him. John let out a happy sigh, breathing in the cold air in relief. He could deal with this. Obviously this vampire didn’t specifically want a personal donor. Hadn’t Molly told him that he’d gone through many before John? He would call a lawyer and discuss what to do.

Spotting a taxi right in front, he hobbled towards it.

“Er, taxi?”

“Sorry, I’ve been booked,” said the old man at the wheel.

“For Sherlock Holmes?” John asked.

The man nodded at him, “Yes. Do you know him?”

“No,” John said, annoyed. “He did say that he didn’t order one, though.”

The man frowned, “It must be a mistake. Could you ask him again, mate?”

“Sorry,” he tapped his leg with his umbrella, “It’s just that my leg...”

“Oh right,” the man said. He climbed out of the car and John nodded at him politely. The man ignored him, his eyes fixed on the door of 221B. Strange old bugger, he thought. Maybe he could wait till the driver realised that the booking was a mistake and use this cab itself.  He checked his phone, 10 30 pm. It would be difficult to find a taxi now.

Deciding to wait it out he walked a few paces to his left, right in front of a closed cafe and leaned against the shutters. It was dark, but he needed some support to rest his leg.

He checked his phone again. Three missed calls in thirty six hours. One from Molly, one from Harry and one unknown who had called him earlier in the evening today. He wondered whether Sherlock had used his phone to call anyone. He checked his outgoing calls – none. On a whim, he checked his outgoing texts; the vampire did seem to text a lot, after all. He had one out going message to an unknown number, it looked like the same one who had called this evening. He tapped on the message and scrutinized the lines.

 ** What happened at Lauriston Garden? I must have blacked out.  ** ** 22 Northumberland Street, please come. **

John frowned. Blacked out? Why had the vampire lost consciousness? Was this other person a drug dealer? Or a fellow junkie? Maybe this had something to do with the police and pink case? Curiosity was starting to gnaw at him, and his thumb skimmed over the call button. He stilled. Enough, Watson! he told himself firmly. It’s none of your business.

But what if he could use this information? What if he was stuck as a PD his entire life? If the person on the other end was indeed a drug dealer, then maybe he could take it to Sherlock ; wrangle a little leeway in return for keeping Mycroft uninformed about his recreational activities. It wasn’t an honourable thing to do, John knew, but then the vampire hadn’t been very fair to him either. 

He pressed the call button.

John was startled, therefore, when the tinny ringing of the phone was overshadowed by a louder ringtone from nearby. It was coming from the taxi, he realised, with a laugh. What a weird coincidence. The phone on his end kept ringing but nobody picked up. Disappointed , he shut it off.

The phone in the taxi stopped as well.

John stared at his mobile and then the cab.  _Could it be possible?_  He wondered and then scolded himself for being absurd. The idea was ludicrous. And yet... there was only one way to find out, wasn’t there? He dialled the number again.

Sure enough the phone in the taxi started ringing. So was the old man some sort of drug dealer?

“Well, that’s not strange at all,” John muttered, cutting the call.

He heard the front door of the flat open and the cabbie walked out. He didn’t get into the cab but leaned against it, facing what John guessed was the front steps of the building. He was so focused on what could only be the door that he barely glanced at the shadow where John was hidden.    
  
In a few seconds the door clicked open again, but no one came into view.  John frowned, there was something off about this situation.

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes,” the cabbie said, obviously looking at the person who had just exited.

The front door creaked shut.

“I didn’t order a taxi,” came a deep, familiar baritone. Sherlock, John realised, curiosity and apprehension making his heart beat quicker.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” replied the driver. There was something sinister lurking beneath the words and John felt the hair at the back of his neck stand.

“ _You’re_  the cabbie,” Sherlock’s voice carried. “The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger. ”

“See, no one ever thinks about a cabbie.” The old man explained, “ ’s like you’re invisible. Just a back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

John tensed.  _Serial killer?_  What in hell was going on here? His left hand inched towards his gun as Sherlock finally came into view.

“Is this a confession?” The vampire looked up and behind, probably to his flat window. John was astounded that neither man even noticed he was there, they were so caught up in their conversation.

“Oh yeah,” the cabbie said with a nonchalant leer. “I’ll tell you what. If you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they’d take me down. I promise.”

“Why?”

John did not like the tone of that question. It sounded curious, intensely curious.

“Cause you’re not going to do that.” The presumption in the cabbie's voice would annoy anyone, but the vampire was unaffected.

“Am I not,” he said; A statement, not a question.

Oh hell, John thought. Had the drugs addled Sherlock’s brain? His fingers curled around the cold steel of his gun, calming his racing pulse.

“I didn’t kill those four people, Mr. ‘Olmes.” There was a pause, “I spoke to them, and they killed themselves.”

_ Four  _ people! John felt anger stir inside him at the smug tilt of the old man’s mouth.

“If you call the coppers now, I’ll promise you one thing.” He leaned forward like he was telling a secret, “I’ll never tell you what I said.”

There was a ringing silence and John waited a whole three seconds.  _Come on, you stupid git_! John thought _, Call the bloody coppers._  Nothing happened. The old man pushed off the car. Jesus, John thought, gripping his gun. He was going to be seen any moment –

“No one else would die though, and I believe you call that a result.” Sherlock was speaking again.

The cabbie paused. “You’ll never understand how those people died,” he said, confident in his assumption. “What kind of result do you care about?”

The telling silence spoke volumes.

John decided he’d heard enough. He moved the same time the old man spotted him. He was aiming at the cabbie's head in less than a second.

“Don’t. Move,” John said, walking closer. He ignored Sherlock, who was frozen like John had meant the words for him as well.  

The old man looked furious; A mad, devastating anger that John recognised too well. The kind of violence that burned down buildings, killed innocent children and always , always, ruined the people who possessed it.  John wasn’t surprised when the cabbie pulled a weapon on him, was expecting it really. People like that always made sudden movements to provoke their enemies into martyring them. John wasn’t stupid, his gun didn’t waver. 

He sensed Sherlock tense in his periphery.“No!” John shouted, “Sherlock Holmes, stay where you are,”

“ _John,_ ” the vampire was angry, but he stayed put.

“Okay, now put your weapon on the ground, slowly,” John ordered.

“You idiot!” the cabbie snarled, “I have a gun pointed at you!”.

John raised an eyebrow, a little amused.“That’s not a real gun.”

Sherlock jerked into action. It was an admirable display of speed and strength; one second the cabbie was standing, the next he was a crumpled heap on the ground. The vampire grabbed the plastic toy and threw it to the side like it had done him a personal affront. It skittered across the road and John picked it up. It had been quite a distance away, but John knew a real handgun when he saw one. Even a silhouette was enough. 

He stuffed  his own gun down the back of his jeans, making sure his jumper covered the bulge of the weapon .He then walked to where the vampire was standing and knelt over the old man, checking for a pulse. Good, he was still alive.

“You’re an  _idiot_!” Sherlock thundered over him. “I should kill you for your absolute stupidity! You were supposed to be unconscious in bed!”

John looked up in irritation, “I think you mean thanks for saving my life.”

Sherlock bared his fangs, pale eyes glittering. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Of course not,” John said, pushing himself to his feet. “Just like you weren’t going to get into a serial killer's taxi.”

“I was going to do no such thing!” The vampire denied, sneering at him. 

“Right,” John said, trying not to smirk. “Only an idiot would do that, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looked flummoxed for a second, and John laughed out loud. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the other man’s lips and their eyes locked. John responded with a big grin before he realised what he was doing. The next second he had his back to the cold bonnet of the car, hands pinned to either side of his head. 

“I don’t like being made fun off,” Sherlock told him, eyes narrowing. Shit, John cursed, squirming in the vampire's iron grip. _What had he been thinking_  ? His back was already starting to complain about being bent in such an awkward angle. Nausea seeped into him. Oh god, he couldn’t survive another feeding.

“I wasn’t making fun of-” He stopped speaking, noticing for the first time that the vampire's face was inches away from his own. There was an amused crinkle around his eyes, like John's fear of being bled to death was the most interesting thing in the world. John scowled.

“Now who’s making fun,” he bit out.

Sherlock leaned closer in reply and John turned his face away, thankful  that the scarf was hiding the bite wound.

“Oi! What’s going on here?”

_Lestrade!_ John tried getting up but the vampire held him down. 

“Let go!” He really didn’t want to beg.

“Sherlock! Stop that!” Lestrade yelled, closer now. A huff ruffled the hair on John’s forehead and then the bruising hold was gone. He let out a sigh of relief, struggling to sit up. Sherlock was already rushing off, leaving John cold and breathless near the taxi.

“Is that anyway to talk to the man who just caught you a serial killer?” The vampire chided. 

John swallowed, watching the slender man explain with dramatic hand gestures who the cabbie was. He glanced up at the living room window looking out into the street, wondering if anyone had seen him with the gun. He caught Sergeant Donavan shaking her head  at him from behind the curtain, like he had disappointed her in some inexplicable way. 

“She’s an idiot,” came a deep voice from beside him. John jumped, surprised to see Sherlock standing a few feet away, watching him.

John hmm’d non commitedly.

“Are you going to run away again?” the vampire inquired. He genuinely wanted to know, John realised, bemused. He wasn’t mocking him.    


John leaned against the taxi,  eyes tracking Lestrade as he hefted the handcuffed cabbie into the back of his car. More police were filing out of the flat, their voices excited and shrill.  There so many ways to reply to that question that he was quiet for a moment, trying to wade past the anger and frustration.

“You should let me go,” he settled on.

Sherlock shifted closer. “I took your blood,” he said, like it explained everything.

“Vampires bite humans all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“I don’t.”

John crossed his arms, frustrated. “You bit me without my permission.”

“Permission is irrelevant if you’re a PD.” Sherlock stated, eyes boring into him like lasers.

John glared, not intimidated by the stare anymore. “What part of I- did -not -volunteer do you not understand? You’re supposed to be  _smart_  !”

Sherlock frowned. “I’m not merely ‘smart’. I’m certified as a genius.”

John pressed both heels of his hands into his eyes. “Is that what you took away from what I just said?”

“I understand what you said,” the vampire defended.

 “Thank god.”

“But  _you_ are the one who doesn’t understand ,John - ”

“I understand perfectly,” John interrupted.

“You do?” The vampire sounded relieved.

“You’re a selfish bastard.”

“There’s no need for name calling.” 

“If you had taken even half a pint more I could have died!” John shouted.

The vampire shifted on his feet, “I knew what I was doing,”

John didn’t buy the chastised child act for a second. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you.”

Sherlock  didn’t reply.

“Oh god,” John groaned. “You  _are_  a sadist!”

“I am not!” the vampire replied, offended.

“Then why?” John demanded.

Sherlock cleared his throat, “It was a mistake...”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Sherlock let out a huff of frustration. “Mycroft says that a first feeding should always hurt, so that a PD knows his or her place. They always listen to you after.”

John flushed in anger, “That’s barbaric!”

“It works!” Sherlock was frowning like he didn’t understand it.  “None of  _his_  PD’s have ever run away.”

John instinctively knew that the vampire wasn't talking about him. He raised an eyebrow, “I thought _you_ were the one who chucked the previous ones out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the entire conversation was a waste of time. “ I would have.Eventually.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “Are you telling me that you purposely made me suffer because your brother advised you that it would make me stay?" 

“This is tedious!” the vampire snapped.

“Then let me go,” John growled. 

 “No. I bit you,”

“You bit the others who ran away too,” John argued.

“I didn't,” came the sullen reply. 

Sherlock was surprising him more and more. “Why not?”

The vampire looked distinctly unhappy. “They were boring,” he grumbled

John blinked, not knowing how to respond to the confession. “Oh,” he said.   

There was an uncomfortable silence, made worse by the fact that Sherlock kept staring at him. 

 “Oi, freak!” 

Both men turned to see Sergeant Donovan walking towards them.

“Sergeant Donovan,”  Sherlock bit out. John noticed that the other man immediately straightened,  pulling himself to his full height.

“I heard what happened,” she said, like she didn’t believe a word. Her eyes slid to John.  “’You all right?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. He was tired of that infernal question.

“Here’s my card, in case you need,” her eyes flickered to Sherlock, “help... with anything .”

“No thanks,” he said, crossing his arms.

Her brow furrowed, like she couldn’t understand John’s reaction. “I  _saw_  what he did.”  

“I assure you, I can take care of myself. ”  _I have a gun_ , John didn’t say.

Sherlock chose this moment to intervene. “If you’re quite done Sergeant, John and I need to rest now.” He curled his fingers around John’s arm.

Both action and statement were meant to provoke and they served their purpose. 

“I knew it!” she hissed. “He’s your PD isn’t he? How do they allow  _you_  to even get one? You’ll kill him! You might as well just give him to a vamp that deserves-”

John put up his hand up to signal her to stop.  “That’s enough,” he demanded.  He was not used to people talking about him like he wasn’t even there.  Donovan scowled at him.

“Fine," she scowled, tossing her head.  "Don’t blame me if you turn up dead in a dumpster one day,” she whirred around, her heels clicking as she marched away.

“That was uncalled for,” John muttered.

“I did warn you she was an idiot,” the vampire said with a slight sneer.

When John didn't reply, he added ,“I know a good Chinese place open at this time. You must be more hungry than usual. ”

It was the closest the vampire had gotten to acknowledging what he had done. Or maybe he just wanted to leave before Lestrade came back and asked for official statements. Whatever the case, John knew he had to lay down some ground rules.

“If you ever assault me again I will shoot you in your sleep,” John told him.

“I could confiscate your gun,” Sherlock said instantly.

“You won't though, will you?” John said, tilting his head at the smirk tugging at the other man’s lips. He had a feeling that Sherlock had already known about his gun. 

“No,” Sherlock agreed, looking pleased.  

“Will you let me go when you get bored with me?” John asked after a long silence. “I don’t mean to another vampire, but free.”

Sherlock pinned him with that gaze of his, the one that made John feel like he was an ant underneath a magnifying glass, but he didn’t look away. He wondered if the pale man was just pretending to consider it.

“Yes,” the vampire said finally, as if he was surprised by his own admission.   

John grinned , pinching the bridge of his nose to hide it.  He must be mad, but he believed him. God help him, he actually believed him. It would take a few weeks, but then Sherlock would let him go. John pushed himself off the cab, feeling a little giddy. 

“Chinese would be lovely, actually.”

 

    ****END****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha poor John, he doesn’t realise Sherlock will never get bored of him. In Sherlocks defence, I don’t think he knows either. I realise it’s not a typical ending, but I wrote it like that on purpose. I really like the premise of an end being a beginning. :D Feedback is <3

**Author's Note:**

> :D


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